The theory behind post-partum amnesia is that a woman, having experienced the intense trauma of childbirth, would never be willing to go through it again, so evolution has tricked them into forgetting the pain of childbirth in order to allow them to think to themselves, “I’d have another child, sure. That sounds lovely.” While I make no claim that restaurant work matches childbirth on the physical pain scale, I do believe that there are parallels between my experience and that of women who give birth, at least in the respect that we’re all foolish enough, despite the pain, that we can be lured by love into doing it all over again. And again.
I was realizing in talking with a guest the other night that for 21 Septembers in a row, or really for 39 Septembers in a row, barring my time at a University-area pizzeria in the mid-80s, I’ve managed to convince myself each time that the summer was over and we’d start getting busy. Each year, it’s a desolate wasteland. I most decidedly want to thank the remarkable people at Sonoran Restaurant Week, who managed to help us and presumably 49 other restaurants in town eke out nine or ten decent days in a month that otherwise see us averaging under fifty guests a night, which hurts on the heels of a year and a half of takeout only, though presumably not as much as childbirth. If you want to see a couple of guys get put in their place regarding the childbirth issue, this is amusing and educational to watch:
the reason I even get onto the subject, though, is that easily a couple of times a year, I’m seduced into schnitzel, or carpaccio, or a roulade of chicken or beef or some such dish, only to find myself, like today, trapped in the office with the closed door doing nothing whatsoever to muffle the steady pounding of a meat mallet coming down relentlessly, today on pork loin, on a cutting board, on a stainless steel prep table that echoes like that sheet-metal thunder that you hear as a sound effect in school plays, occasionally with other tools clattering and jumping on the tabletop as one of our young proteges takes out his aggression on innocent pork for a solid 40 minutes. NOW who has the aggression? Hint: he’s writing this email. And he won’t be adding carpaccio to the menu next month.
So once again, with my misophonia at full tilt, I’m getting today’s email out a couple of hours after having begun it, with my thoughts scrambled by ambient noise, residual hatred for a grease collector, and having bitten off more than I can chew once again. Mercifully, it would appear that Youth on Their Own is as overwhelmed as I am, which will prompt moving our delivery day back a bit, but we’ll still be bringing them meals sooner than later, and we thank you for your help in that endeavor.
First, though, we’ll have to get through putting together our dinner with four fearless apprentice chefs for Primavera Cooks, which happens Wednesday the 29th. I’m not sure whether there are seats left to be had at the dinner, but you can check with David Elliott and learn about the event here:
I’d also advise you, if you have the intention of dining with us as a regular restaurant guest that evening, that in order to keep people comfortably distanced but still raise as much as we can for the Primavera Foundation, we’ve given up all but a few seats to the event, so the remaining dozen or so seats will fill up quickly.
If, like me, you’ve had a week that’s taken the stuffing out of you, consider treating yourself to one of our two virtual wine tasting this weekend, a sampling of patio wines tomorrow,
and a sampling of wines we like so much that we bought up all that remained in Arizona on Sunday.
Meanwhile, it’s still September, which means you should still be able to waltz in here any night but next Wednesday- I know we’ve got room for you all weekend long. So take a look at the menu,
see if anything sounds delicious, and come join us for a bite. We’d love to visit.
Your slightly overwhelmed but mercifully amnesiac friend who’ll have forgotten it all and started over again shortly,